


The Great Italian Bake-Off

by ToBebbanburg



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Literal Slice of Life, M/M, Slice of Life, dont be upseddy make some bready, hope you're not gluten intolerant cos this baby's full of bread, nicky gets upset over bread, proper football, theres also football, which tbh is very relatable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26015827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToBebbanburg/pseuds/ToBebbanburg
Summary: It's the 1982 World Cup, and tensions get fraught as Italy and France both make it to the semi-finals. A snide comment from a disappointed Booker sends Nicky off on a quest to create Italy's answer to the baguette: based on true events, believe it or not.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 71
Kudos: 319





	The Great Italian Bake-Off

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently the ciabatta was invented in 1982 in an attempt to combat the popularity of the baguette. Now I have nothing but respect for the baker who did this, but for story purposes... it's gotta be Nicky.

**1982, Italy**

It wasn’t so much that Joe loved watching sports: rather, he loved watching them with other people. His allegiances for teams and countries were so fluid as to be described as non-existent, depending solely on who he was watching with and what sort of mood he was in. It was about the camaraderie that came from watching sports with someone else, the thrill that rose and rose and rose with each goal and each foul tackle.

Nicky was the exact opposite. He had little interest in watching any sort of sport, and yet staunchly supported Italy in any and every event. He had never watched more than the opening lap of a Formula One race, and yet could spend hours arguing with Booker over the superiority of Ferrari over Renault.

The Formula One Joe could just about cope with. The Football World Cup was something else.

For a while, things were civil. Joe would watch the group stages with Booker in snatches whenever they were staying in a place that had a TV, his support flittering between France, Italy, and Algeria depending on which matches he caught. Andy occasionally joined them when their shouts and groans signalled that a match was interesting enough to watch, but Nicky was rarely even ever in the same room as the football.

“It’s hard to concentrate with all the noise.” He had teased Joe after one particularly loud match between France and Czechoslovakia. Joe had, on a whim, decided to support Czechoslovakia so he could shout _at_ Booker for a change rather than with him. The match had ended in a draw, and the two men had decided to finish it themselves with an old leather ball which had resulted in a couple of broken toes (Joe) and wounded pride (also Joe).

Throughout the group stages Nicky had firmly maintained that Italy would win the cup, and reacted to news of every victory with a smug smile and a knowing nod. Things only really came to a head in the knockout stage, when both Italy and France were in with a chance of making the final.

Italy won their game without a hitch, not conceding a single goal to Poland. The French match, however, was much much closer. After early goals for both France and West Germany they reached full time still at a draw, and both Booker and Joe were perched on the very edges of their seats as extra time was called.

The seats were soon forgotten completely as four goals were scored in extra time, two for each team, both men rising to their feet as for the first time in World Cup finals history a shootout was called. Joe couldn’t explain why standing up helped with the tension: it just did.

The penalties were the most on edge Joe had ever been during a football match. None of this mattered, really, but his heart was racing as fast as it did during a fight and his whole body felt like it were pulled taught. Booker was little better, abandoning his grip on his beer to clutch at Joe’s arm as it all came down to Bossis taking his turn at the goal.

Whether through nerves, or misjudgement, or sheer bad luck Bossis’s shot was blocked, and a minute later West Germany had secured their place in the final.

“Putain.” Booker swore, collapsing back onto his chair and putting his head in his hands. He stayed there for a while, mumbling curses under his breath as Joe tactfully decided to turn the TV off.

Booker had just about recovered from the defeat when Nicky entered the room.

“What a shame.” He remarked dryly. “Though at least it has saved you the embarrassment of losing to Italy in the final.”

“You got through on luck.” Booker snarled. “France would beat Italy any day, you got off easily with Poland.”

“You can tell yourself that.” Nicky shrugged, and Joe had to smother a laugh. Nicolò was a wonderful man, a man who viewed his sole purpose in life as helping others, but he had a surprisingly mischievous streak that mostly manifested in finding various ways to wind Booker up.

“I bet you, Italy will lose the final and France will win against Poland. _Then_ you’ll have to admit there’s nothing to it. France is the better team.” Booker insisted.

“Alright. 1000 that Italy win and France come fourth.”

Joe suspected Booker hadn’t been trying to set up an actual bet, and Nicky likely knew that as well, which probably explained the slight smile that played on his lips as he spoke.

“1000 what?” Booker asked.

“1000 anything. Lira, dollars, Omani Rials, you choose.” Nicky shrugged again. “Neither of us win if both teams win, or both lose.”

“Agreed.” The bet seemed to have livened Booker’s spirits, and he eagerly shook Nicky’s hand to seal the bet.

Booker’s good mood was short-lived, however, once the final and 3rd place matches came to pass and Italy comfortably lifted the World Cup whilst France languished in 4th. The only joy he got out of the whole ordeal was deciding that Nicky’s “1000” referred to pennies, and that he only owed him the grand sum of 10 pounds.

“There you go, 1000 pennies.” Booker said smugly as he tossed a few coins over Nicky’s shoulder onto the book he was reading.

Nicky barely blinked, idly sweeping the coins off from his book without even bothering to count them.

“Keep it, this wasn’t about the money. It was about Italy being ten times the team France is.”

“Again, you got lucky.”

“Being lucky so many times in a row rather suggests there’s something more at play. Skill, perhaps?” Nicky looked up from his book at that, a smirk on his face. Booker looked as though he were about to retort but stopped himself, thinking. After a tense second a dangerous look came into Booker’s eye, a look that almost made Joe step in to diffuse the situation. Almost.

“Alright.” Booker said slowly, precisely. “You may have the better football team. You may have the better Formula One team. But do you know what we have?”

“Do tell.”

“Bread.” Booker said with a smirk. “For a country that prides itself on cooking so much, what a shame it is that all Italian sandwiches are made with French baguettes.”

Nicky had gone silent, and was incredibly still apart from a single twitch in his jaw. _That_ was Joe’s cue to step in.

“Alright alright, that’s enough.”

“Oh come on Joe, it’s just bread, surely that’s an easy thing to concede victory over. Right Nicky?” Booker goaded.

Nicky remained worryingly silent, staring off into the distance.

“Ok, I think we’ll just call it a draw, yes?” Joe said desperately.

Booker smirked, and bent down to whisper something indecipherable in French into Nicky’s ear before sauntering out of the room. Nicky didn't even blink.

“You alright, habibi?” Joe asked, perching on the end of the table and tentatively reaching out to stroke Nicky’s hair. Nicky was normally immune to any insults or jibes, but Booker seemed to have found the one thing he was sensitive about.

“He’s right.” Nicky said through gritted teeth. “The worst part is, he’s right.”

“You have pizza.” Joe tried.

“It’s not the same.”

Nicky shook his head as if to clear his thoughts then looked up at Joe, a smile now firmly plastered on his face.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine. It’s just bread.” He said, and if Joe hadn’t had almost 900 years to get used to every micro-expression of his love’s he would almost believe that he meant it. As it happened, he spent the rest of the day with a pit in his stomach that told him that Nicky was plotting something, though what, he didn’t know.

****

When Joe woke up the next morning it was to a Nicolò shaped space in bed next to him. The sheets weren’t even remotely warm: Nicky had been up a while.

Remembering the forced calm that had come over Nicky after what Joe could only ridiculously refer to as “the bread incident”, Joe hastily pulled on a pair of trousers and left their bedroom, hoping Nicky hadn’t started some strange revenge against Booker. The house was quiet save for the sound of clattering and swearing that came from the kitchen, and Joe softly made his way along the corridor to the source of the noise.

The kitchen was chaos. There was flour covering almost every surface, covered bowls sat on the windowsill and measuring implements were scattered everywhere. In the middle of it all was Nicky, furiously kneading some dough.

“He’s making bread.” Andy said rather un-helpfully. She was sat on the edge of the chaos, eating what looked to be a bowl of raw dough. “This one’s too salty.” She called over her shoulder to Nicky, who swore and came over to snatch the bowl from her hands.

“Nicky?” Joe approached with caution, caution that came from the experience of being accidentally hit by one of Nicky’s sharp elbows whilst cooking too many times. Nicky was so absorbed in his work that he didn’t notice Joe until he was right by his side and jumped, sending little clouds of flour into the air.

“Nicolò? I love you with all my heart, with every fibre of my being, but do you not think this is perhaps a slight over-reaction?”

“Not at all.” Nicky said, a genuine smile on his face that seemed at odds with the frantic look in his eyes. There was a smudge of flour across his cheek that Joe ached to reach out and clean off, but something told him that this wasn’t the time.

“Booker was right, Italy doesn’t have anything to rival the baguette. So I’m going to make a new bread.”

“A new bread, huh?”

“Sì, I just need to find the right quantities. It’s got to be flat, so it’ll be better to make sandwiches out of, but with a thin crust.” Nicky enthused. “I need more tasters, you can help Andy, I’ve got three lots proving at the minute and I have ideas for at least four more and then one of them should be close enough that I can refine it.”

“I’m chief taster though.” Andy called over from her spot outside of the flour zone.

“I’ll help, of course I will, but you’ve got to take it slowly, ok?” Joe said gently. Nicky could get completely absorbed by a project, losing himself in dedication to one thing and one thing alone. It made him great as a sniper, and had doubtless made him a great priest too, but Joe wasn’t sure trying to invent bread was such a healthy fixation.

He had almost thought he had got through, could have sworn he saw Nicky’s eyes clear, when Booker walked in. He hooted when he saw what Nicky was up to, a grin forming on his face.

“Try all you like, by all means. The baguette is unstoppable.” He crowed.

“Joe, get him out.” Nicky said, his voice worryingly calm.

“Aw come on, don’t be like that, you’ll always have pasta.” Booker laughed, but allowed himself to be pushed out of the room by Joe as Nicky resumed his furious kneading.

“What have you done?” Joe asked him quietly once they were away from the kitchen. “You’ve broken my Nicolò.”

****

Nicky remained in the kitchen for seven hours. After a couple of hours Andy left, and Joe had to draw the line at taking her place to test various raw dough mixtures. Around the fifth hour Joe decided things had gone on too long, and by the seventh hour he decided to do something about it.

Nicky was sat on the floor watching his latest batch of bread in the oven, seemingly hypnotised by the sight. Joe carefully settled behind him and wrapped his arms round, snuggling close. Nicky stayed as stiff as a board.

“You need to relax.” Joe kissed the spot behind Nicky’s ear, one of the only spots that wasn’t smudged with flour. “You’ll never get it right if you overthink it.”

“I’ll never get it right if I don’t do it at all.” Nicky replied, though Joe could at least feel his muscles start to relax.

“Sometimes your brain works best if you’re distracted. How many scientists and artists have had breakthroughs whilst doing something completely different?” Joe gently started to brush the flour of Nicky’s cheeks, moving to kiss the skin that was exposed bit by bit. To his relief he felt Nicky let go completely, sagging into the hug and allowing Joe scoot them backwards, away from the oven.

“I’m sorry, Joe. This was all a mistake.”

“Nonsense. It was only partially a mistake: we won’t have to buy bread for several weeks now.” Joe teased, and Nicky groaned.

“Come on. Let’s get this out of the oven and go for a walk. You need some fresh air, all this flour isn’t good for your lungs.” Joe stood up and held his hands out to Nicky, pulling him up to his feet.

“You’re too good to me, Joe.” Nicky smiled through the flour and pulled Joe into a hug, holding them tight together. Joe had to admit that the smell of fresh bread that clung to Nicky’s hair was wonderful, and he closed his eyes and breathed in the scent, glad to have Nicky back in the land of sense.

“Right. Clean your face and grab a coat, I’ll take the bread out.” Joe placed a brief kiss to Nicky’s lips, then smacked him firmly on the behind to get him moving. With a sly look over his shoulder Nicky left to clean up, and Joe was left to take the bread out of the oven in their absolute mess of a kitchen.

****

The walk, to Joe’s immense relief, did wonders for Nicky. They wandered through the town until they reached the river, the cool air coming off the water a wonderful contrast to the hot and humid kitchen. Nicky didn’t mention bread once, though he did turn his head and pointedly look away whenever they passed by a cafe.

By the time they returned to the house the day’s madness seemed almost a dream; until they were confronted with the bomb-site of a kitchen, that was. Nicky set about tidying it up without a word, and after a moment of watching Joe joined him. Together they made short work of washing the bowls and tins and spoons, and Joe had started to sweep the floor when Nicky finally turned his attention to the cooled bread they had left on the counter.

“I’m almost certain I’m sick of bread.” He said, looking at it with a mournful expression.

“Go on, try it: I helped with that one.” Joe stopped his sweeping to watch Nicky.

“You took it out of the oven.” Nicky said with a slight smile.

“Exactly. Imagine how awful it would be if I hadn’t done that.”

Nicky laughed, and took a knife to the bread, cutting off two small slices. He handed one to Joe, who ate it without hesitation. Their walk had worked up quite an appetite, and _he_ wasn’t sick of bread just yet.

“It’s good.” Joe said appreciatively. “I’d eat a sandwich made with this.”

He wasn’t even being gentle with Nicky’s feelings: it _was_ good bread, just the right combination of hard crust and soft centre. Nicky was silent for a beat, staring at the bread on the counter before turning to Joe, his eyes bright.

“Joe. You’re a genius, this is perfect.” Nicky said, looking reverently at the bread.

“You put that in the oven before I took you out for a distraction.” Joe chuckled.

“I’m still willing to let you take the credit. You have always been my inspiration in everything I do. This is _the_ bread.”

“I’m glad I could help, tesoro.”

The pleased look on Nicky’s face struck a chord in Joe’s heart, and he couldn’t resist dropping the broom to walk over and press his lips to Nicky’s. Nicky made a surprised sound but responded eagerly, the bread forgotten as he licked his way into Joe’s mouth, nipping his lip and running his fingers through Joe’s curls.

When Joe finally pulled away he was breathless, and looked into Nicky’s eyes.

“I think we should-”

“Write down the recipe.” Nicky finished, his tone earnest. “And then.” He added, noticing Joe’s disappointed look. “ _Then_.”

****

The next day when Nicky slammed the sandwich down in front of Booker accompanied by a menacing “eat it”, Joe burst out laughing. Nicky met his eyes and shot him a quick smile, then turned back to Booker with his stern expression back in place.

Booker sighed dramatically and picked up the sandwich. “Oh what injustice, being forced to eat a sandwich someone lovingly made for me.”

“Not love, spite.” Nicky corrected, then relented as Booker made an appreciative noise as he bit into the sandwich. “Maybe a little bit of love.” He conceded.

“This is actually good.” Booker mumbled as he took another bite.

“I know.” Nicky said, but he cracked a genuine smile and finally sat down at the table.

“Needs a little more of the balsamic dressing.” Andy weighed in after reaching over to grab the other half of Booker’s sandwich.

“And still not as good as a baguette.” Booker added, waving his half of the sandwich in the air for punctuation. “But close.”

“We’ll see.” Nicky said, a sly grin creeping across his face.

****

  
**2018, New York**

“Oh look, ciabatta.” Nicky said nonchalantly as he perused his menu. “I make that 6-3 for New York now.”

“We’re in an Italian restaurant, this doesn’t count.” Andy countered. She had no stake in the competition beyond wanting as close a fight as possible, and tended to side with whichever bread was currently losing.

“We’ll say half marks.” Joe said, trying to mediate. He’d thought they would have stopped their tallying by now, but the only concession the two had made to their competition was scoring each visit to a different city as a blank slate. They’d both long since lost count of the actual tally.

“Actually no.” Booker suddenly smiled, remembering something. “Let him have a whole mark. Consolation, I think, for Italy not even qualifying to the World Cup that France will win.”

Nicky shook his head vehemently. “No, Tunisia will win.”

“Habibi, please don’t make this bet.” Joe leant over to Nicky, lowering his voice. “They’re really not that good.”

“Tunisia to win.” Nicky said, ignoring him completely. “1000.”

Booker laughed. Andy laughed. Joe groaned.

**Author's Note:**

> The best sandwich I have ever had in my life was from an Italian restaurant in town and it had parma ham and mozzarella and tomato and balsamic cream and let me tell you it was heaven.
> 
> Come find me on tumblr, @tobebbanburg


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